


Grown Up Things

by fuckyeahcaptainpan (ChipmunkCharles)



Series: Captain Pan One-Shots [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Heart - STARS, M/M, Sad, Tumblr Prompt, growing up fic, modern!AU, yea..............
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipmunkCharles/pseuds/fuckyeahcaptainpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time can take its toll on the best of us<br/>Look at you, you're growing old so young</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grown Up Things

**Author's Note:**

> So like I’m pretty positive that I ran away from the meaning of the song (like I didn’t realize that he meant he was lying about still loving her until halfway through then i banged my head like uuuugggghhh…oh well), and like yea, but I did keep some of the themes from the verses, I guess haha. I don’t know.  
> (beta'd by the lovely Mina)

**Warning Contains:**  peter pan ‘growing up’, OOCness, 3,918 words, depression, and nudity  ~~oops~~.

* * *

> _  
> Time can take its toll on the best of us  
> _ _Look at you you’re growing old so young_ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aucFYXskEok))

* * *

 

Colorful images flashed across the TV, the mute button pressed long ago. A boy dressed in jeans and a hoodie sat on the couch observing the moving pictures with tired blood-shot eyes until he fell asleep. His lover would then hastily pick him up and carry him to bed, holding him tight under the stained white sheets.

The nightmares would come soon after, but the boy’s lover would continue to hold him tight as he thrashed and whimpered. The man would whisper words of comfort into his ears even after movement ceased and the boy awoke or continued to sleep.

The man would rise in the early hours shower and dress for work. The boy would lie in the bed still sleeping or watching him dress. The youth would comment on his job, ask him if he could stay behind—it was always a no.

The man was the sole provider for them. He worked two jobs, in the morning as a coxswain and the graveyard shift at a diner.  He would return home to the boy asleep on the couch or staring into space a butt of a cigarette hanging from his lips. The man would peck him on the head, breath in a scent of lavender and lemongrass, and head for another shower.

Sometimes the boy would join him, initiate intimacy, and the man would comply lifting him from the slippery ground, taking him against the shower wall. The moments would be quick and barely passionate, but they’d get the job done and sate the boy ‘til morning or the next night. Other times when both were tucked under the sheet the boy would whisper for the man to touch him and he’d comply like if in the shower, because he believed it made up for abandoning him all morning and afternoon.

Every month though, for three days, the boy would sleep alone. He’d fall asleep on the couch then wake up to the still muted television screen the man nowhere in sight, only piles of opened envelopes on the kitchen table. He’d never read them or touch them just stare at the addresses and swallow hard.

The last day of the three was the worst. The boy would stand in the doorway wrapped tight in a blanket watching with blank eyes as the man drank from a bottle of rum and smoked half pack of cigarettes, the opened letters in his hand, cheque book in his lap. The youth would pretend at times he couldn’t hear the man grumbling about taxes and bills all the worries of an adult. At eighteen years of age, two months from nineteen, one would think the boy would have a job, at least something to help take care of them better and make the pain of those letters less of a sting. But he didn’t work nor go to school, too stubborn to break away into adult activities.

No one but the man quite understood why he was this way; even then the man was a little confused. His friends ex-lovers, Wendy and Felix, would bring newspaper articles to his door with potential jobs highlighted in red. He wouldn’t accept them though only stare as they’d point and roll his eyes snapping that he and Killian were doing fine. The sad part was, he believed his own words and would laugh in the faces of strangers who bashed him for it dubbing him a weed, a parasite.

He tasted a crumb of reality the night the power blinked out, taking the silent TV with it. He blew it off for a moment assuming the raging storm outside was the source, but light shining under the door threw him for a loop. He called his lover three four times for an explanation, but only received a voicemail, so he asked when he came home.

It was explained that the man’s pay was cut at the port and he couldn’t pay all the bills. The boy stared at him anger boiling in his blood. He yelled that it was no excuse and the man’s fault for failing at his job; he spat insults and stormed around the living space locking the man out of their room minutes later.

Wendy and Felix urged him to take a job more often after that—he continued to ignore them—but the night Killian asked he decided to listen _,_ see what the problem was.

The man explained how he was fired from the port after the change in ownership, that it was now a cargo stop for shipping and trade. The man explained that his job at the diner wasn’t enough to help them get by, that he needed help the boy to get a job. He received no reply, only a piercing scowl and rolling green eyes—the boy was unconvinced. So Killian begged pleaded for the youth to understand and see the approaching eviction in their future if the bills were not paid.

Killian did all in his power to persuade him. He wooedurgedprayedbeseechedcried asked over and over. He shook the boys noggin, showed him the bills, worked out the math, but he wasn’t swayed, he was pissed. Pissed that the man wanted him to grow up before he was prepared, (as if he would ever be prepared), and get a job like an adult. He smacked his hands onto the table screaming through clenched teeth then stomped away slamming the bedroom door closed.

The man ruffled his fingers through his dark hair, massaged his temples, and questioned over and over in his head why he stayed with the boy. Why he allowed him to throw child-like tantrums; why he hadn’t demanded for him to get a job before. They were in a relationship, a partnership, each one was supposed to pull their own weight, but that was too easy, and nothing was easy when it came to the boy. Killian knew this.

It seemed he was is the adult in their relationship, thus it was his task to handle the child, but the boy was unpredictable like many children, and maybe that’s what held the man back. Or maybe it was because to him this youth may hold the appearance and wild heart of a child, but he was more of man than the boy was willing to admit.

He didn’t want to lose this boy over a petty fight though. Not one about work and bills and  _growing up_ that would be such a silly thing to occur. Not to mention this boy was the man’s root, the thing to hold him in place for the four years they’ve been together, two they lived together. Killian would do anything for him. He would say whatever the boy wanted to hear, even if the words were lies to milk the deception. He would do as the boy commanded, kill even, if it meant he would stay with him and not leave like many from his past. He did all this in hope that the boy may fall in love with him just as he did that lonely night in the empty coffee shop.

Certain times he’d really like to believe that the boy indeed had fallen for him too, but the times come when he storms off in offence, or gives him the cold shoulder, or locks him out of his room, or refuses to touch or be touched that he conceives the thought of the boy only loving him as a guardian,someone who looked after him and gave him what he needed to live with no rebuttal.But when those ideas sparked in his mind the boy would do something to give him hope of something more hidden in unexplored caverns in the behind his green irises.

Like when the boy came out of the room speaking no apology for the reaction he gave, only dragging the man by the hand into the dark abyss of their sleeping quarters where the boy rode him into the rest of the night. They laid breathless in the aftermath, limbs tangled in knots and foreheads pressed in a chaste kiss, the boy then spoke of how he would do as the man did and find a place for work but neither one would speak of it out loud in the presence of anyone. Killian grinned, the first ounce of stress falling from his shoulders. He kissed the boy with gratitude repeating like a broken record ‘thank you’s and how he’ll make it up to him when they bounce back on track.

“I love you so much, Peter, thank you. Thank you.”

They never did find the track, only a bumpy road leading to a cliff. It wasn’t the need for money forming the potholes and wrong turns though, it was the boy. Being forced to grow up unexpectedly while still trying to keep in touch with his youth affected him as a wrecking ball to cement. He became antsy and irritable, juvenile—fired from three jobs in one month. He pitched fits more often than before, and attacked a costumer for backlash—Killian prayed every night for two weeks that the customer wouldn’t sue and take what little they had.

It was six months in that Killian finally saw in full disclosure the cracks formed in the boy. He would no longer touch his hands to the window observing the passing trees and cars; he would just stare emptily ahead or toward the blazing sun.  He would mumble random lyrics to songs he used scream at the top of his lungs and trudge through thick snow almost breaking an ankle on the ice, instead of skating on the frozen water or tire sledding through the white powder.

So, to maybe caulk the cracks back together the man requested the boy two nights off. When the boy found out he yelled about money, how he needed to work—growing up so immediately, money was the one thing he learned adults needed the most in their life. Killian told him he was sounding like a grown up. The boy numbed at the emotionless words; his body shook and his knees locked forcing him to the floor. The man caught him rubbing his back as he sobbed and cursed himself.

The man suggested therapy, a way to help the boy coax himself through, a way to help him come to a complete closure with his youth. The boy sputtered out refusals, a repetition of no and money as he buried his face into the man’s shoulder, his slender legs wrapping around the elder’s waist before he was carried off to bed.

The two days were nowhere near enough time for the boy to heal, especially when the man had to leave at night for his bar job. The youth would just sit on the couch his butt print still molded from old forgotten nights into the cushion and he watched the TV screen with the mute on like always, where he would fall asleep until his lover returned to take him back to the bed.

It was another month when the cracks began to break even more, his friends came to him griping that he needs to lay off the excessive work and allow his self to heal for a month or two (they suggested therapy as well). He wanted to give into their words so desperately, but the piling envelopes told him he shouldn’t—for Killian.

The man became his life raft for the rapid waves of growing up. He helped to keep him somewhat afloat and breathing through the length of time, always there to resuscitate him when the influx of the undertow drug him below the surface crushing his chest and shriveling his core like a raisin. He felt like for the entirety of his existence he’d been flying through the clouds living in the land of his dreams for centuries untouched by time, immortal youth. But the current Father Time spun dragging him deeper and deeper, drowning him with adulthood, the metamorphic water ageing from the inside out as it flooded his lungs. He was but a senior captured in an adolescent body.

His smile completely washed away by month nine, his eyes lost every microwatt of a spark and frown lines blossomed on his face, his beautiful face. The man watched in sorrow as the boy appeared to age more and more each passing day. He couldn’t’ve begun to count the number of times he found the boy in front of a mirror stripped bare on top of a stool as he poked and tugged on his skin, nitpicky comments spoken to himself. The man would wince at some of the words, disgust bouncing on his tongue as the youth mentioned sagging skin and burgeoning wrinkles, signs of age.

Killian tip toed toward him, enveloping his nude form within is arms outwardly exclaiming the boy’s beauty before leaving butterfly kisses along his shoulder. The boy never refuted his claim but instead relaxed into the embrace allowing to be laid onto the bed with his legs wide open. The boy ran his fingers all along his lover’s skin, roaming over bulging muscles and barely seen bones. He asked how the man’s body could remain so soft, so built,  _so young_  when his nineteen year old frame lost its figure months ago.

His lover pecked his lips reiterating his previous profession of beauty and as emerald gems stared in to the sapphire ones above a gleam of light sparked, whether it was of hope or belief neither knew. Mouths attacked and tongues fought and they wasted the afternoon away in compliments and prayers of their future.

Month ten brought a new aura to the boy he began to smile at times, laugh at fewer, but it was progress both were willing to accept. The idea of therapy still wandered inside Killian’s skull popping into view every once in a while, he refused to pay it mind though.

Month eleven and Peter appeared back to normal, he’d bounce around the living room youth redistributing in his features, any signs of depression or age wiped away. But with this new life came the stubborn child with it, and it scared not only Killian but Peter’s friends as well.  Because what if his attitude got him fired leaving him jobless and the man left the only provider again? What if his juvenile pride swarmed the best of him and he quit? The idea of either caused all three to bite their nails.

Rent went up at month twelve. Killian never told the boy about it, scared of the reaction it would cause in him because lately he’s been happy. The boy seemed to be a child again, not the adult he was forced to be. It appeared as if time rewound itself bringing back the gay, innocent, and heartless being he once was.

His old grin returned plastered on his cheeks, his eyes glittering gold as he danced on the balcony or through the fields on the way to work. His hands returned to the car window pane as Killian drove down the road. His emerald orbs fixated on the evening sunset, teeth bore as he beamed at the orange sphere, point of sight flickering every few seconds to the passing objects illuminated by the golden rays of light. It was the image of pure innocence.

It was in moments like those that the man bit his lip feeling unworthy of such a beautiful boy to have in his bed and hold tight in his arms. It was moments like those where he’d cross his heart a million times to love the boy forever.

Month thirteen was an accident. The man took the boy out to dinner—it wasn’t a special occasion just a date night meant for him and Peter. He expected peace at the restaurant, few bits of chatter here and there but mostly comfortable silence. The ambience was strange though, a sense of foreboding tickled the back of his neck. Yet, he shook the feeling away because the boy he loved was holding a pure genuine smile after so many months, at least until a woman joined their booth.

She tangled five fingers into Killian’s dark locks, the other five tracing over his jaw as she whispered slurred words into his ear. The boy snapped for the bitch to back away his eyes formed into narrow green slits, fists balled under the table, and grin curved into a frown, a jealous snarl ripping through his throat. The woman rolled her eyes expressing how the man needed to control his son better, whip him into shape. Peter shouted for her to leave standing up the best he could in the booth. She scoffed that he should behave if she was to be his new mommy; the comment captured the man’s attention breaking him from a previously frozen state.

He attempts to dismiss the girl barking that he didn’t want her, much less be near her, but she captured his lips at the turn. Her pink nails digging into his cheeks securing their hold. It took a minute for the man to trigger a release, and when he finally got rid of her he relaxed into the booth. He laughed to himself as angry heels disappeared in the distance remarking to Peter that the skank has just left the building. He only received silence though and that’s how he noticed the boy himself had exited the building.

Killian found him by the car—legs sprawled out in front of him, unlit cigarette dangling from chapped lips. The boy asked what took him so long; he said no words just took the empty place beside him digging a lighter from his pocket. The grey puffs of smoke waltzed through the air, spinning and bending as the wind wisped by. If the man had been looking to Peter in that second instead of the vapor he would have noticed a tiny tear and quivering lip.

Month fourteen shit hit the fan. Peter was fired for misconduct. Killian was fired for drinking on the job.

Month fifteen went by in a blur of scattered colors like the muted TV, but this world wasn’t muted. It was a land full of max volume surround sound and unscripted reality.

Peter’s nightmares appeared more violent; he’d scream and scream and scream no matter how tight Killian held him—he again suggested therapy options for the boy after two weeks of no sleep. Peter told him a flat “No,” going on and on about the money they didn’t have.

The man explained how they could cut back on a few items, smokes and liquor, if it means he’ll go—Peter still said “No.” Killian explained how the boy was breaking. He explained how the night terrors were more apparent, how he picked more fights than usual, how he appeared to be pulling at the sewn up seams. The boy laughed calling the man’s excuses nonsense, rubbish.

Killian didn’t buy it though. He sat the child down and talked to him. He made sure to hit every note about his change into adulthood, and how it’s not healthy for anyone to keep emotions pent up, much less for a boy—that’s when Peter cut him off.

The youth stood to his feet, face cherry red and anger dripping from his pores, “I am not a boy anymore, Killian! This fucked up world made sure of that.” He stomped around the room arms flailing and steam pouring from his ears. “Every damn day I pretend that I’m okay, that I’m making it through this hell perfectly fine when I’m not! I try and try and try for you, Killian, but I’m being buried and no one can help me—no one.” He collapsed to his knees covering his mouth to hold back a sob.

The man fell with him, clutching his fragile body close pressing chapped lips to his hair. “I’m not supposed to grow up; I’m the boy who can’t grow up.” Killian shushed him, told him to calm down—that he was there and that he loves him.

Peter left two days before month sixteen. He packed his bags with knickknacks and clothes then set off before his lover awoke. Killian knew the moment his eyes spotted the letter that he was gone. He didn’t need to search the drawers or the closet or call him a million times, because he knew, he saw it coming from miles away.

So, he simply sat at the kitchen table, ate his breakfast (cheerios and rum), and read the note. His eyes analyzed across the black, curvy writing, tallying each watery smudge in his head—nine. The note was short and to the point; it told of the boy’s depression and anxiety, ended with talk of Felix and plane tickets.

Killian damned the boy’s friend in that moment cursing him for taking away the one thing he loves most, but his mental curse was empty. He didn’t want the boy to come back, because he was the one to break him, push him to the edge and break him. The boy was broken and bruised all because of him. Killian was the one that made asked him to grow up, told him to fight through the shock of growing up even when they were doing better. Killian was never the raft that kept the boy afloat, he was the log holding him up until he filled with water and sunk himself. He was the boy’s undoing, as the boy his.

As he watched through the dusty window observing the blue morning sky he spotted a plane. He sat on the cold, damp floor legs spread open, a freshly lit smoke suspended by his lips, cerulean eyes trailing after the metal bird wondering if it was Peter’s, wondering if he was looking at him through the window whispering his love to the paned glass as his ash hair fell into his chartreuse eyes.

He never wondered if the boy cried as he left or as the plane took off, he figured he was happy that he was finally free. The boy was in a paradise all to his own, a gift given to him by his best friend and ex-lover, a gift Killian wished with all he had he could’ve blessed the boy with. The thought of them together in paradise tempted him to by a plane ticket and fly to every destination in search of his other half, so they could be together again and hopefully forever, but the man stayed put.

He couldn’t spend the rest of his life chasing a lost boy whose only wish is to stay young and carefree, innocent and heartless. He couldn’t chase a boy who soared through the clouds and ran with the wolves in his dreams spare time. The quote states that if you love someone, set them free. If they come back they’re yours; if they don’t they never were. Killian prayed the boy would return. He’d have to one day; all birds return home when the time comes, but was Killian his home or his prison.

The thought of such made the man’s whole being ache, so he left the kitchen window trudging slowly past the television. Colorful images flashed across the screen, but this time the whisper of audio echoed in the background, a sign the boy was truly gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be well appreciated. :)


End file.
